What the Genius Hides
by Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS-8463
Summary: Sherlock and John have been flatmates and friends for five years, but, John realizes there are lots of things Sherlock has never told him. When a shady character from Sherlock's past begins to reawaken past trauma, Sherlock must learn to trust John with his heart. TW for references to sexual abuse, rated M just to be safe. Reviews and comments are always welcome! :)
1. Chapter 1

It was a quiet and uneventful Sunday morning at Baker Street. John had been promised a very well merited break from the surgery, and he had been assured that he would not be called in unless the surgery was extremely shorthanded or desperate. So, although he had awoken at his usual time of six am, he had been lounging around languidly, reading the paper in his dressing gown and sipping his cuppa lazily.

Sherlock had been distracting himself with an experiment measuring fungal growth in detached phalanges since lunchtime Friday. He would never admit it out loud to John, but he was somewhat enjoying the quiet weekend. He could never reduce himself to sitting on the couch and, say, watching crap telly, but his current level of relaxation was quite enjoyable. His experiment was simple enough to allow his usually hyperactive mind to take a breather, while not suffering from that painful boredom that he so detested.

Sherlock looked up slowly, his eyes fixing on John, who had finished his tea and was stretching slowly, yawning a bit and rubbing his eyes. Sherlock smiled slightly without thinking. He was glad to see the doctor getting a bit of rest and relaxation. The pair had been occupied with back to back cases for what seemed like an eternity. Four weeks of small, though demanding, cases hadn't really given Sherlock much trouble, as he was used to minimal sleep when his mind would be occupied with the task of solving a mystery. But, for John, who had to continue going into the surgery every weekday, regardless of how long he had been running around with the genius the previous night, fatigue levels had been nearly unbearable.

John stood suddenly, reaching for his mug and heading towards the sink to deposit it there. He noticed Sherlock staring at him, and coughed softly, startling the taller man from his thoughts.

Sherlock gave him a shy smile, and then quickly returned to his work.

John furrowed his brow slightly, and then shrugged. He could never know exactly what Sherlock was thinking at any given moment, and, he really couldn't be bothered to try at the moment.

John advanced to the sink, turning on the tap and filling the used mug halfway to let it soak. When he was finished, he walked back over to his flatmate and spoke.

"Sherlock," he said softly, not wanting to annoy the man, as he was clearly immersed in his project, "would you mind not calling me for any cases today?" He paused, looking up at the detective, as he hadn't broken his concentration on his petri dishes. John hoped he was listening, and continued to talk. "I'm quite knackered from our…adventures from the last few weeks, and I'd really like to just…take a day off." He paused again, still not seeing a reaction from the other man. "Hope that's alright with you," he finished, exhaling loudly.

Sherlock sat up straighter, breaking away from his experiment. After a few seconds, he turned to look at John, who had been about to leave his side, not having received any answers thus far. "Yes, yes, of course. Take a break." Sherlock tried to keep his disappointment from his voice. It was selfish of him to expect John to not want a bit of time to himself, wasn't it? Something about being sensitive to others' needs? In any case, he reasoned that it would probably be best to let John take a day to himself.

John was a little taken aback. He had been expecting a bit of a tantrum from his flatmate, where he'd whine a bit about how John's 'funny little brain' couldn't handle the stress of the cases, and groan about having to go to the Yard without him, where he'd have to deal with Anderson and Donovan's snide remarks on his own. And, had that been a twinge of…disappointment in Sherlock's voice?

John nodded quickly, trying to read Sherlock's expression. But, of course, the detective had already turned his attention back to his fungal fingers; effectively shutting John out of the conversation. John rolled his eyes and made his way back to his chair, where he picked up his laptop and began to chronicle their last few cases.

* * *

Around 9:30, Sherlock heard his mobile ring. "John?" he called, unwilling to move from his position at his microscope.

John rolled his eyes, but complied with his flatmate's demands. He followed the muffled ring, finding the mobile under a pile of papers on the coffee table. He answered the phone, putting it on speaker so Sherlock could hear as well. "Hello?" said John, pacing back towards Sherlock.

"Hey, John," said Lestrade from the other end. He sounded shaken and a bit uncomfortable. "Is Sherlock available?"

John was about to answer when Sherlock leaned over and snatched the phone from John. "Speaking," he said, turning off the speakerphone and lifting the phone to his ear. John frowned. Why the sudden need for privacy? Had John lost his privilege to know about the cases because he wanted a break?

"Mmm. Alright. I'll be there in ten minutes." He paused, listening to Lestrade on the other end. "No, I'll arrive alone." He glanced over at John, who cocked him an eyebrow. Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned away again.

"Are you sure?" He asked, looking over at John again. "Fine. I'll call again in a moment." He unceremoniously hung up the phone, standing and turning to face John. "Apparently, you're wanted at the scene. There's been a murder, and Lestrade is under the impression that I am useless if not accompanied by you."

John gave Sherlock a confused look. He couldn't detect any malice or sarcasm in his tone. There was just…what? Was it an admission of need? Or was he just paraphrasing Lestrade in fewer, harsher words?

John huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and looking defiant. "Sherlock, you said I could take a break. I have never asked for one before, and, right now, I am exhausted. You were just fine before I moved in here and became your 'assistant;' I'm sure you can survive one case without me." He tried his best to sound assertive, expecting Sherlock to pout a bit for not getting his way.

But, instead, Sherlock merely nodded. "Alright. I'll send your regards to Lestrade." And, with that, he grabbed his iconic coat and was out of the flat.

* * *

**A/N: Oh my God, I just wrote my first chapter of fanfiction ever! Aha!  
**

**That being said, I am extremely new to this, so I do apologize if my writing is really bad. This is just something I'm trying out to see if I like it! :)**

**Reviews would be like candy after a failed diet, so yes, please do review, if you'd like.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

John wasn't sure how to feel about Sherlock's passive reaction to the doctor's refusal to go with him to the crime scene. In a way, it felt empowering to finally have won a battle against the stubborn consulting detective, but, it really hadn't been a battle at all. Sherlock had just let it go.

John sighed. He was probably over thinking the whole situation. Maybe Sherlock really had just wanted to let John have a break. It had been a stressful month, even for Sherlock, so it wasn't impossible. But, the genius didn't exactly have a track record for being considerate of others, to be honest. He kept heads and thumbs in the fridge, grew mold in the cupboards, and was not afraid to deduce those around him, regardless of how insensitive his findings often were. He had woken John countless times with his, albeit beautiful, violin music at ungodly hours of the morning, deprived John of sleep when he insisted that he needed 'a second opinion,' and been blunt and abrasive far too many times to count.

And, while many others, if not most others, would have left the genius quickly and without a second thought, John had stayed. Oh, yes, he had _thought_ about leaving countless times, after Sherlock had used him as bait in a particularly gruesome case, or when John had discovered an assortment of human kidneys in the freezer. But, the idea hadn't been entertained for more than a fleeting second. If he was being completely honest, John couldn't imagine his life without the only consulting detective in the world. If he left, John would not only miss the danger and the chase; he would miss the crazy man he called his flatmate. John owed so much to Sherlock, and he knew it.

Both of them knew it.

But, maybe the debt wasn't one-sided after all.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab, lost in his thoughts. Lestrade had sounded worried when Sherlock had rung back, confirming that he was, indeed, traveling alone to the scene. It wasn't as if the idea of Sherlock solving cases alone was a novel one; after all, Sherlock had been solving cases long before he had met John. He had met Lestrade five years prior to meeting the army doctor, and he had had no problems solving cases without an assistant. If he had required someone to do mundane things like make tea or deliver things to the Yard, he'd have persuaded, or conned, someone at the Yard to do it for him. He hadn't had the need to be dependent on anyone else.

But, somehow, John was more than a tea brewer or a delivery boy. John had been so much more of an asset than that. He had proved himself to be brave, loyal, and keen to correct Sherlock if he was too abrasive or insensitive. Sherlock had never given empathy or sensitivity much weight, but, John had changed that. Sherlock truly did feel regretful when he said something unintentionally cruel to one of the Yarders, or when he deducted too harshly, and John had become his guide, in that respect.

So, yes, Sherlock had changed with the arrival and continued companionship of the soldier. But, had he changed so much that he was now part of a duo? Was he really so different now that he had someone to help him?

* * *

The cab stopped outside the address that Lestrade had given the detective. He paid the cabbie and made his way to the house. No, more like a manor, the detective decided. The spacious yard was tidy and well groomed, and the driveway itself was long enough to be a dead-end road.

Sherlock jogged up the length of the driveway and was met by Anderson and Donovan. "Where's the wife?" asked Donovan snidely, blocking the detective's access to the door.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I do believe he would be my husband, if that's what you're instituting, although that is unfounded and obviously said to 'rile me up,' as the saying goes. Although, I don't know why that would be insulting." He smiled coldly and moved around the couple, reaching for the door. "Always good to see you both," he said snidely as he slipped over the threshold.

He spotted Lestrade and moved towards him, quickly pulling on plastic gloves as he walked. Lestrade spotted him and nodded curtly. "Morning," said the detective inspector, moving towards a spiral staircase and gesturing for Sherlock to follow. Both men ascended the staircase, pausing for a moment as DI Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside before they entered the crime scene.

"Sherlock, are you sure that you don't need John here?" asked Lestrade, lowering his voice to a gentle whisper, hoping that he wasn't overstepping his boundaries.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Detective Inspector, I am fully capable of solving a case on my own, thank you," he said coldly, moving away from the other man. But, Lestrade gripped his arm and pulled him back.

"I don't doubt it. But, that's not why I'm worried." Lestrade paused, trying to decide how to word his next statement. "Sherlock, we think that this murder may have…been a message for you," he said hesitantly, looking into Sherlock's intense gaze. Lestrade hesitated again, biting his lip. "I...think you should have…someone with you when you first go in to see-"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pulling away from Lestrade and striding into a room on the right of the staircase that was marked off with police tape.

He froze as soon as he saw the scene. There, on a king sized bed, lay a tall, thin man with dark, unruly curls and pale, smooth skin. He was curled up in the fetal position, with his front facing Sherlock.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. Yes. A message indeed. The resemblances to the consulting detective were general, but obvious. This had been deliberate.

Lestrade had entered the room without notice, and he quietly stood beside the genius, holding out an envelope to the silent man. "This was found on his bedside table."

Sherlock swallowed hard, taking the envelope, which had already been opened. He carefully reached inside and retrieved its contents; a small greeting card, which bore the image of a cartoon pirate.

Sherlock inhaled sharply and closed his eyes for a moment, deliberately keeping himself from shaking. After a few seconds, he opened the card, and read the neat script inside:

_"Dearest Sherly,_

_ Surely, you haven't forgotten about me, sweetheart? You seem to be cozying up to that adorable doctor quite quickly. You know how I get jealous…_

_ But, alas, I have only one thing to say to you, my darling. One particular day that I know you, or I, cannot ever forget._

_January 25, 1996_

_Come and play._

_ JM_

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. He dropped the card, and ran out the door and down the stairs, ignoring Lestrade's surprised yells and the shocked expressions of the forensics team.

He sped out the door and ran. He didn't pay attention to where he was going. He ran, and didn't stop.

* * *

**A/N: I decided, for the sake of this story, to tweak the Moriarty situation a bit. In this story, Sherlock and John have lived together as flatmates for five years without meeting the lovely Moriarty. And, the situation doesn't start with a mad cabbie. I may eventually use the plots to "The Great Game" and prior, as well as"The Reichenbach Fall" eventually, although they will probably be a bit different than the canon versions. But, you know, creative license and all that schtuff. **

**Also, I have no beta for the time being, so all mistakes are very much mine. I promise I'll try and proofread, but, you know, things do slip.**

**Reviews are very much appreciated, and I would also be willing to consider small plot suggestions! I give no guarantees, but, who knows, I may draw inspiration from someone's suggestion! I will totally give credit where it's due if that does happen.**


	3. Chapter 3

He eventually ran out of energy, not knowing or caring how far he had run, or how much time had passed. He wandered into a filthy alleyway, not caring that it was strewn with garbage or that it spelled of rancid urine, and collapsed against a brick wall, letting the tears come.

He hadn't cried in sixteen years, except for the crocodile tears he had found necessary in certain investigations. Being out of control was something that Sherlock Holmes had never been able to handle, but it had all gotten so much more painful after that day in January, sixteen years ago, when he had discovered James Moriarty's true colors.

* * *

Sherlock and James (or Jim, as he preferred to be called), had met in University, as roommates. Neither one of them had been able to secure one before the term began, so they were paired together to share a dorm. Initially, they had both kept to themselves, but, soon, they realized that they were both incredibly similar. Both had been victims of lonely childhoods due to their superior intellects and slightly unsociable habits. Sherlock, of course, had always been a keen observer, which had earned him the title of 'the freak,' and Jim had always been sly and very quick to adapt, which didn't earn him much trust with his peers.

Both of their parents had been removed and cold; Sherlock's because of diplomacy and an emotionally abusive father, and Jim's because his parents had been tried and convicted of various felonies, running in and out of jail for most of his formative years.

Their pain had brought them together in ways that Sherlock could have never thought were open to him. To such a lonely young man, any form of camaraderie was a drug that was sought after. Even better, he had felt like Jim felt the same way.

Sherlock had thought that he had finally found someone like him; someone who could understand the pain of being alone and the euphoric, yet terrifying, realization of being different from the 'ordinary people' that they were surrounded by. They had ridden that superiority like a wave that crashed through their previously meaningless lives.

But, as it turned out, Sherlock had been naive to thing that Jim had really cared for him. Even when they had courted, Jim had been playing a very well scripted part.

* * *

And, on January 25, 1996, that had become very painfully clear.

He had tried over and over again to delete that day from his mind, but, he never could completely erase it. Somehow, little things would trigger the memories and send him into mad fits of desperation and paranoia. He had used cocaine as an escape, but that had only left him more manic and in worse shape in the long run.

Recovery hadn't been easy. For someone like Sherlock, not having control over his body was a hard blow. He had sacrificed his autonomy and dignity for the sake of an escape, and that escape had turned out to be one hell of a prison. The withdrawals were nothing compared to the helplessness Sherlock felt as he failed again and again to find a viable replacement for that euphoric high that he had found with the cocaine.

It had taken a near death experience and a huge stroke of luck to get Sherlock Holmes to a makeshift emotional plateau of sorts.

Six years after his last encounter with Moriarty, he had been in the middle of a deal when the police had launched a drugs bust in his surrounding area. Although he had tried to run, his drug addled body had been too weak, and the police had barely been required to jog after him.

While being detained, it had been DS Lestrade who had handed him a picture from a crime scene, daring him to find something that the police had missed. When Sherlock had deduced the entire crime from the single picture, he had been offered a deal: he could help the police with their investigations in exchange for his drug possesion charges being dropped.

He had been hesitant at first, but, with that first case came that first 'high,' and Sherlock realized that he had found his release.

And, now, he was right back where he started.

Desperate, alone, and hounded by his memories of Jim Moriarty.

* * *

**A/N:****Ah, man I'm going crazy posting today! But, I'm just full of ideas and I have lots of time right now, so wonderful! :)  
**

**THANK YOU TO ALL OF YOU WHO HAVE REVIEWED! I love you all so much!**

**Once the whole "oh my god I have so many ideas lol" thing dies down, I will probably be posting once or twice a week. Once I go back to school, things may get worse (read: slower), but, I will try my very best to keep up :)**

**Reviews are like cake to me: I enjoy them and can never get enough! **


	4. Chapter 4

John Watson had been watching telly ever since Sherlock had whooshed off for his case. He could practically feel his brain numb from the lack of stimulation, and it felt fantastic. His mind had been overexerted over the last few weeks, what with Sherlock's cases and John's responsibilities at the surgery on top of that.

Not to mention, his flatmate could be an insufferable git when it came to respecting his schedule. The consulting detective's sleeping patterns were nowhere near linear, and, when Sherlock couldn't sleep, no one else could either. So, the army doctor was properly exhausted, on all fronts.

His mobile rang, and he muttered abuse at it as he fished it out of his pocket. "'Lo?" he muttered groggily, wincing as he sat up too fast.

He could hear Greg on the other side of the phone. "John, is Sherlock with you?" Greg asked, as he climbed into this car, joining the other officers as they prepared to go search for the missing Sherlock.

John instantly felt awake. "No, I thought he was still with you. What happened?" He instantly began searching for his shoes and proper clothes.

Greg sighed heavily, starting his engine. "The murder victim was a tall, thin man with dark, curly hair and very pale skin. A note was left at the scene by someone named 'JM' alluding to a specific date that's apparently significant between him and Sherlock, and when Sherlock read the note, he panicked and ran off." Greg paused, not sure what else to say. "I'm not going to say that I think that he's guilty, but, we have to entertain the possibility." He pulled away from the manor, driving away, glad that he had backup. Sherlock could be anywhere by now.

John stopped getting dressed and gripped his knee tightly. "Greg, did it ever occur to you that he could be terrified?" he said, his voice getting dangerously low. He stood and started to pace, trying to alleviate some of the tension he was feeling. "That date could mean anything and everything to Sherlock. And, Sherlock is not the kind of man who would run." John closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm down.

"Greg, please; I am asking you to have a little faith in Sherlock. I know him; he wouldn't run without a reason." As soon as John had said it, he felt a twinge of doubt. He had only known Sherlock for five years, and, even then, much of Sherlock remained a mystery to the older man.

Greg sighed a little. "John, I've known him for ten years. I've seen him change, yes, but, relapses can happen."

John sighed. Of course. Everyone knew about Sherlock and the drugs. God knows why Sherlock had even started messing about with them. "I'm pretty damn sure Sherlock hasn't been doing drugs, Greg." He paused. "I'd know if he had." Again, he felt a bit of doubt, but, he ignored it. He would have seen it. Sherlock couldn't be that sly. He _wouldn't_ be that sly. John trusted him enough to know that.

Greg shrugged. "Well, I've started driving around, and I have backup, but we could always use you, John."

John finished tying his other shoe and picked up his mobile. "I'll search by foot. Call me if…when you find him," John said, ending the call and running out of 221B Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to the sound of familiar footfall. He must have passed out. Post-emotion lethargy? Possibly.

His head was pounding, and his neck ached from having laid in such an awkward slumping position, but Sherlock was too tired to bother readjusting himself.

Sherlock turned his attention back the sound of the footsteps. Quick walk, a smaller stride than Sherlock's, wearing heavy duty boots…

"Sherlock!" Sherlock reacted to the sound of a familiar voice calling out his name.

"John," he groaned, not as loudly as he'd hoped. He tried again. "Jo-John!"

The footsteps grew louder as John ran towards Sherlock's voice. "Oh, my God, Sherlock," John said as he rounded the corner into the alleyway where Sherlock lay, still too worn out to move much.

"Jo-" Sherlock didn't finish saying the doctor's name. Instead, he pulled him down to the ground and held him in a desperate embrace. He didn't care about keeping up appearances, or of sustaining his aura of detachment. In that moment, the one thing he desperately wanted was to be held.

John was surprised by this sudden invasion of space (by _Sherlock_, of all people), but, he didn't resist. He felt tears begin to soak through his jumper, and it took him a minute to realize that they were not his own. Was Sherlock crying?

He looked down, only to see that Sherlock was not only crying, but full on sobbing. The younger man's chest heaved as he gasped for air. John, although shocked, decided that all that could be done was to try and comfort him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling his head against his shoulder, the doctor gently raking his fingers through his flatmate's dark curls, not caring if anyone saw them. He could deal with the rumors and the questions later. For now, Sherlock needed John, and John was willing to be there.

"Shhh, it's alright. You're alright," John whispered softly into Sherlock's ear, slowly beginning to rock him back and forth.

* * *

After a few minutes, John tried to pry himself away from the consulting detective, but Sherlock was reluctant to move. "Sherlock, it's okay. I just have to phone Lestrade and Mycroft. I promised them I would if I found you." John looked at Sherlock, who had begun to look up at him.

Sherlock nodded slowly and let John get to his pockets. The doctor dialed Lestrade and told him where to find them, as well as to phone Mycroft to let him know where to go. He hung up the phone and turned his attention back to his flatmate.

Sherlock had slumped against the brick wall of the alley, his legs and arms splayed out, like he was too spent to care about his appearance. John scooted closer to him and took his left hand in both of his. "Sherlock," he said, almost reverently, as if he were talking to a small child, "are you alright?"

Sherlock took a labored breath. "N-no," he said quietly, leaning to put his head on John's shoulder. He closed his eyes, squeezing out a few stray tears.

John turned himself so that he could face Sherlock directly. "Sherlock, why did you run?" John used his left hand to quickly wipe away the tears from Sherlock's cheek, his hand lingering on his companion's cold skin. "Please," he said, after Sherlock pulled away slightly.

The younger man shook his head slightly. "I-I can't," he stuttered, looking up at John's warm grey eyes, his watery blue ones uncertain. "I'm-I-please, John, not now," he finally managed, and John nodded softly, pulling Sherlock in again for another embrace. They both heard sirens, but didn't move. The police would come to them, but, for the next few seconds, they would stay together, just holding each other close.

* * *

**A/N: Well, I am done for tonight, but, rest assured, this story will be updated regularly! If for some reason I don't update for more than a week, you have full permission to flood me with PMs demanding that I get off my lazy ass and write. Or, get on my lazy ass and type. I don't know. **

**Also, HURRAY FOR SOME JOHNLOCK STUFF! It's not going to be completely happy from here on out though. Angst is needed in the plot I'm invisioning. But, if anyone has any juicy suggestions, my mind is open! **

**But, yes! Thanks to all the readers and reviewers! :D Hugs and non-awkward kisses to all.**

**Ta-ta for now! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade parked haphazardly next to the alleyway, half on the pavement, and jumped out of his car. He waited for a few seconds to make sure that his backup knew where he was, then ran to find Sherlock and John. He wasn't sure whether to be livid or sympathetic. _What was the bastard thinking, dashing off like that? He could have at least muttered some excuse about needing air or a cigarette_, he thought as he looked around for the two men.

But, at the same time, Sherlock had looked pretty distressed. That in itself had been abnormal behavior for the normally cold and disconnected Sherlock that Lestrade had come to rely on. Sherlock wasn't like any of the police on the force; Lestrade could always count on Sherlock to never bring domestics into the office, even when Lestrade couldn't trust himself to do the same. He was always focused and completely dedicated to 'The Work,' no doubt about it. _Must've been one hell of a reason to run off, then_, Lestrade thought dryly as he kept walking.

After a bit more wandering around the back ways, he stopped cold when he finally saw the two men. Sherlock was almost in the fetal position, resting on John's legs, with his head on John's left thigh. John himself was hunched over him, rocking him slowly back and forth, muttering unintelligible phrases into the younger man's ear. Lestrade was like a ghost to them; he was sure his presence was felt, to some degree, but neither of the two men paid him any mind. The scene would have been almost, what, _adorable_, if it hadn't been so completely out of character to see Sherlock so vulnerable.

Lestrade felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Mycroft Holmes staring at his brother and the doctor, a look of shock and bewilderment clearly present on his face.

"Do you-" the diplomat began, but the Detective Inspector just shook his head.

"Haven't the foggiest," he sighed, still internally debating whether or not to approach.

John looked up suddenly, giving the stunned pair a grimace and a solemn glance. "Could you help me get him up?" he asked gruffly, nodding his head towards Sherlock.

Greg nodded, his mouth still slightly ajar. "Yeah, yeah, of course," he said, glancing at Mycroft, who gave him a quick bob of the head, setting down his umbrella against the alley wall. They both approached the other two men, gently helping the consulting detective away from John.

"No." The single word took John, Greg, and Mycroft aback for a moment.

"Sherlock, we need to get you to…somewhere," John pressed, unsure of what the plan even was.

Sherlock started to push himself up, carefully and slowly propping himself against the wall. "I'm fine," he said, his voice indicating otherwise. He coughed, as if denying his body's betrayal. "I'm perfectly fine," he repeated, a bit more confident.

Mycroft walked forward and offered him his shoulder. "Brother, let us help you," he whispered, gently taking Sherlock's right arm and draping it across his own neck.

Sherlock struggled a bit, but his brother was insistent. "Let _me_ help you," he pled gently, stepping forward.

Sherlock swallowed his pride and let Mycroft help him away from the alley wall. Greg and John stood still for a moment, watching the two brothers inch forward, the elder leading the way. The two men shared a look and small, observant smiles. Then, they nodded at each other and followed suit, Greg subtly retrieving the older brother's umbrella.

* * *

Sherlock had insisted on going home with John instead of taking a trip to St. Barts for an examination, refusing the hassle. John had taken his side, simply because he was ready for a hot shower and a long talk with Sherlock about how _not_ to exit a crime scene. So, the two men took a cab back to their familiar flat, staying silent for the majority of the ride, careful not to pop the pregnant silence, for fear of creating a more uncomfortable conversation.

Sherlock practically ran inside as soon as the cab stopped, leaving John to foot the cab fare. At this point, however, the doctor wasn't feeling up to arguing about anything as petty as 30 quid.

As John closed the door, locking it behind him, he heard a not so familiar tune being coaxed out of Sherlock's violin. It was violent and fast, and, if the genius hadn't has such a reputable playing record, John would have feared for the poor instrument's safety.

But, all the same, it was unnerving. John could tell that his flatmate was improvising, by the slight pauses he made every so often as he plotted the next few notes before he played them.

John stayed by the door for a bit, somewhat unwilling to enter the sitting room and be forced to face the music. Something was definitely off with Sherlock, but, Dr. John H. Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, for all his bravery, courage, and stubbornness, was _afraid_ to ask him what, exactly, had snapped.

_Afraid_? Was that the right word?

Maybe more like _apprehensive_, or _uncomfortable_. Sherlock had rarely even shown as much as an ounce of sentiment towards anything, much less the terror that he had displayed in the alleyway for only John to see.

But, John knew that it had to be done. He had to ask. John gritted his teeth and turned to climb the stairs to their flat, determined to make some deductions of his own about his secretive flatmate.

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, yeah, I wrote another chapter...It was either this or having to force myself through an awkward board game session with the family.**

**But, yeah, usual stuff about loving reviews and readers and stuff.**

**Maybe I'll just post whenever the hell I feel like it, and keep it to at least once a week. Deal? K cool.**

**Love you all! :)**


	6. Chapter 6

John climbed the stairs quickly, making no effort to be discreet. There was no point in beating around the bush. Both men knew that they would eventually have to talk.

John reached the top of the stairs and stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as the consulting detective lowered his instrument, remaining with his back to the doctor, staring out the window. His bow bounced up and down as Sherlock's right hand shook slightly.

"Sherlock," John began, slowly approaching the younger man, who had begun to put away the violin, still refusing to look up at him.

John's hand gently covered one of Sherlock's, which had been replacing his violin into its case. Sherlock quickly moved himself away from John, focusing on loosening the bowstring on the bow instead.

"Sherlock, please!" John raised his voice slightly, bringing his hands up to his short blond hair and grabbing fistfuls in frustration. "I'm trying to help you!" The doctor sat back into his deep armchair, pressing his face into his hands and sighing deeply.

Sherlock remained silent, gently placing the bow inside its groove in the case and shutting it gently. He glanced up at John, his face betraying his discomfort. "John, I don't need your help," he said carefully, trying to convince himself even as he said it.

John groaned in frustration, pushing his palms into his knees. "Right, then; you just ran off into that alleyway for shits and giggles, did you?" he retorted, pushing himself to a standing position again, moving in front of his flatmate. John looked up at Sherlock's face, trying to find any trace of emotion, and seeing absolutely none. Damn him and his poker face.

Sherlock stepped back a bit, setting his violin and case on a pile of boxes. "John, we're not discussing this now." He turned back to the doctor, keeping his face blank.

John gritted his teeth. "Then, when?" he asked harshly, glaring at his flatmate.

Sherlock remained silent, his gaze shifting to the floor, unable to keep his stare steady. "I-I don't know," he whispered, feeling his voice catch in his throat.

"Sod this," John hissed, turning to leave the flat, snatching his jacket on the way.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open slightly as he tried to decide what to do. "John, please don't go," he stammered, his voice now soft and unsure.

John stood still, not turning to face him. "Why should I stay?" he whispered, his soft tone barely audible to the other man.

Sherlock froze, his mouth agape, not knowing what to say. "I-" He stopped short, still at a loss.

John turned around slowly to face his flatmate. "Why should I stay?" he repeated, gritting his teeth, glaring at his flatmate, his face growing warmer.

Sherlock couldn't move. He stood, paralyzed, his feet cemented to the ground by some unseen force. "John, I don't understand," he stammered, finally finding the strength to edge towards John.

The shorter man stepped back into the flat, his movements rigid and angry. "No, Sherlock, you stay right where you are!" he growled, his voice rising, and Sherlock stepped back, his hands reflexively moving up on either side of his face, in the universal signal for surrender, "John-"

John snapped. "Do not 'John' me, Sherlock!" he screamed, startling the taller man. The doctor quickly strode towards Sherlock, stopping when he stood no more than an inch away from the other man, their faces almost touching.

He looked up into those piercing, intelligent eyes, almost begging. "Tell me why I should stay," he repeated for the third time, but with his voice down to a soft whisper,

Sherlock was still lost. "John, I'm sorry, but I don't

John stepped back slightly, exhaling sharply and running a hand through his short blond hair. "Sherlock, I have spent five years as your flatmate, running off at a moment's notice to fly away with you and watch you deduce every crime scene, dead body, and annoying detective in your path, and I've fawned over you and your bloody genius for that entire time."

John lifted a finger to silence his flatmate, who had begun to stammer. "Shut up, Sherlock, and just let me bloody finish," he interjected.

The taller man stopped, his jaw closing quickly.

John bowed his head and lowered his hand, taking a deep breath and continuing on. "I have completely dedicated myself to 'the work,'" John said, using over exaggerated air quotes for emphasis, "and, I don't even want to count how many sleepless nights I've spent sorting through books or paperwork, or how many people I've had to apologize to because of your tactless comments, or how many times I've had to go after your stupid arse because you managed to get yourself into trouble for the billionth time." John was ranting by now, frantically pacing the floor.

Sherlock wanted desperately to say something, to say _anything_, but, he couldn't form an acceptable sentence for the life of him. So, instead, he just listened.

"I've trusted you blindly from the day we met, Sherlock. I have risked my life for you more than I should have had the chance to. I've sacrificed everything from my career to my dating life for you." John paused, his piercing gaze boring into Sherlock's eyes. "I really do care about, you Sherlock," he said simply, knowing that that went without saying, but reiterating it, regardless. "If I didn't, I would have run away a long time ago."

John's eyes suddenly moistened, and the smaller man had to blink a bit faster to keep them from leaking. "But, Sherlock, I shouldn't have to say any of this. You, of all bloody people, should have picked this up." He stopped suddenly as he felt an unwelcome catch in his throat. He swallowed sharply and continued anyway. "So, why can't you trust me?" he whispered, his voice cracking, the pain in his voice very apparent.

The doctor sniffled quickly, wiping vaguely at his eyes, unwilling to let his emotions run any higher.

Both men stood silently, the pregnant air between them long and unfamiliar. Silence hadn't been uncommon at 221B Baker Street, but this quiet was different than most that they had experienced. Instead of the calm, natural lack of noise that occurred as John typed away at his laptop and Sherlock carefully fiddled with specimens in petri dishes, this silence was more of a stubborn and uncertain game of tug of war, where the first to speak was defeated.

But, surprisingly, regardless of his competitive nature and compulsive need to always be in control, Sherlock felt the need to forfeit his place in this game.

He was more concerned with what else was at stake in that silence. He needed to speak to John.

He took a shallow breath. "John," he began, still working out what needed to be said in his head. "It's not that I don't trust you, because, I do." He paused, inching towards his companion and gently placing his palms on the smaller man's shoulders. "I do trust you, with all of my heart."

John had flinched a bit at his flatmate's unexpected contact with him, but he hadn't moved away. Instead, he looked up and met Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, his eyes soft. He felt vulnerable, but not weak. If there were anyone that he would want to confess his emotions to, it was John. He stepped back a bit, releasing John's shoulders and crossing his arms over his chest instead.

"John, today I felt something that I haven't felt in quite a long time," he continued, swallowing hard, glancing down for a moment before looking back at John. "I felt…terror," he whispered. He forced out the word like it had been uncomfortably lodged in his throat. "I was caught off guard, and couldn't suppress it, and I panicked."

John's forehead softened slightly, his eyes growing kinder and his relaxing a bit.

Sherlock stepped backwards again, as if recoiling, folding his arms protectively across his chest and turning away. "John, don't look at me like that." His voice had gained a slight edge. "I don't want your _pity_," he spat vindictively.

John extended an arm, gently placing a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder, mimicking the detective's earlier actions. "Sherlock, I didn't mean-" John shook his head. "I'm not trying to pity you, I promise." He gently guided Sherlock to the sofa, where the taller man sat reluctantly, the doctor settling down beside him.

"It's just that…" John bit the inside of his cheek, cursing himself silently for his inability to articulate his thoughts properly. "Sherlock," he said, taking his flatmate's hands in his own, "I understand what it feels like to be terrified, alright?"

* * *

Sherlock couldn't help but believe him. John had no reason to lie to him, after all. In his rage and refusal to admit his fault, Sherlock had somehow forgotten how much the soldier had gone through. He had forgotten about the many times that he had seen brief glimmers of pain in the doctor's eyes as he'd examined a particularly mangled body, or the many nights where Sherlock had been jarred from his work by the sounds of John thrashing about due to his night terrors. John had always downplayed those nightmares, but, Sherlock had habitually checked on his companion every night for just about the entirety of their time spent living together.

It had never completely occurred to Sherlock, however, that John had been through more than enough hardship for a lifetime. If anyone, John _could_ understand Sherlock's struggles, perhaps better than anyone else. But, was Sherlock ready to bare his soul to him? It was a tall order for anyone, and a nearly impossible one for the reclusive and withdrawn man. It had taken Sherlock years to reach his, up until recently, stoic and cold demeanor, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to sacrifice his normalcy for the sake of possibly of beginning to heal.

Was this all worth the risk?

* * *

John shifted slightly on the couch, snapping Sherlock back to reality. "Are you okay?" he asked, gripping the younger man's hands a little tighter.

Sherlock bit his lip. "Yes, fine," he mumbled, still half absorbed in his own thoughts.

John released one of Sherlock's hands and used his own to softly lift the other man's chin so he could look directly into his eyes again. "I promise that you can trust me, Sherlock," he said simply, smiling kindly and honestly. "I'm here, whenever you need me. Whenever you're ready."

Sherlock gave him a weak smile in return. "I know, and I do," he replied, taking the doctor's hands again and gripping them firmly. "I do trust you."

Another silence fell, and they sat, just looking at each other and holding hands. It was not the incendiary silence that had fallen before, nor was it the serene, but bland, silence that was part of daily life in the men's flat. No, this silence was permeated by the intense bond that the two men shared. It was not necessarily a romantic bond, but, it was the strongest connection either of the two men had ever experienced. This silence brought a tranquil comfort, one that both men would have gladly shared for as long as the other had wanted.

John glanced quickly at the clock on the wall, chuckling slightly. "Look at us," he said jovially. "It's barely past noon, and we've already had a fully emotionally draining, bonding experience."

Sherlock joined his laughter, letting their matched sentiment echo through and fill their flat.

The two men shifted slightly away from each other, both remaining on the couch, but no longer in direct contact with each other.

"So," John quipped, still facing Sherlock. "How should we spend the rest of the day, if not chasing some criminal through the heart of London?" he posed, gently hugging Sherlock's union jack pillow.

"Well," Sherlock began, "you did mention something about wanting a quiet night in," he said softly, smiling placidly as the words left his mouth. "Would you mind if I joined you?" he asked timidly.

John laughed. "Of course; be my guest." He stood, walking towards a cabinet situated next to the TV. "Movie?" he asked, turning back towards his flatmate.

"Sounds lovely," the genius responded, smiling widely.

John selected the first Harry Potter movie from its place in the cabinet and placed the disk inside its slot in the player. He returned to his seat on the sofa, turning to Sherlock again. "Just…don't deduce your way through the entire movie, will you?"

Sherlock smirked. "I suppose I could refrain from doing so for just one film," he said smoothly, glancing back at his friend.

John rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and the two men relaxed, happy to be comfortable in each other's presence once again.

* * *

**A/N: Holy shit, this chapter was hard to write! God, I must've rewritten it six times! Also, it's twice as long as most of my other chapters, but I couldn't find an acceptable way to split it, so you get a monster chapter (well, by my standards, at least).  
**

**But, I am well within my weekly update timetable, so, while I still feel accomplished, I don't feel rushed. :)**

**Also, I have some news: I've decided to up the rating on this from T to M, just so that I don't feel like I have to constantly provide warnings. If and when the more explicit (smut or otherwise; I'm still planning this story out as we speak/as I type) content comes out, I'll still place CW's and TW's when necessary, but, I won't feel as compelled to be as careful, if that makes sense.**

**So, that's just so you know. I'll try to make any explicit content skippable by placing TL;DRs at the ends of the offending chapters, if you're worried about plot holes.**

**But, yeah, that's about it! Thanks for reading, and reviews are nice, as are suggestions and constructive criticisms. :)**


	7. Chapter 7

One film quickly became two, and two soon became three, continuing on until eight hours had elapsed, Sherlock having fallen asleep on John's shoulder around seven and a half hours in. The doctor wouldn't have minded much, but the taller man's head was digging uncomfortably into his scars, and his arm was beginning to go numb.

John gently shifted his arms, wrapping them around Sherlock's shoulders and lowering his head carefully into his own lap. Sherlock stirred slightly as John removed his arms from his tall, thin frame, softly replacing one on the other man's chest, and the other on the arm of the sofa, right next to Sherlock's dark, untamed head of hair. But, instead of waking, the lanky detective only settled into his new position, snuggling closer to John, his face pressing against the smaller man's soft maroon jumper.

The doctor smiled lovingly down at his flatmate, his right hand beginning to play with the soft strands of hair in its reach. He watched as the stretched out curls bounced back easily into their organized chaos as John would let them go, and he relished the feeling of having Sherlock's body so close to his, relaxed and trusting. He felt their chests move in a synchronized dance of sorts, their breathing deep and in perfect harmony.

John sighed deeply, his face betraying his thoughts, glad that Sherlock wasn't awake to deduce him. He knew that his feelings for Sherlock would probably cause him troubles in the near future, if they hadn't already. Sherlock wasn't the most emotionally invested of men, as far as John knew, while John, although he had denied it for years, was an incredibly sensitive and caring one.

He let his emotions rule his decisions far too often, as he had earlier that day. His emotional outburst towards Sherlock had left him feeling more helpless than when he had started.

Then again, he thought ruefully, that was how his interactions with Sherlock usually ended up playing out. Something about the consulting detective fed his possessive nature, as well as his already tender emotions. He desperately wanted Sherlock to be his, and to be Sherlock's in return.

But, John's desires weren't simply physical, although he did greatly appreciate Sherlock's appearance. His tall, thin body, with those ridiculously long legs, and that dark mop of hair that contrasted perfectly with that pale, smooth, flawless skin. And, those sharp eyes, with their flecks of color and their focused intensity that threatened to ignite everything that came in their sight.

But, no. There was more to John's attraction than a shallow appreciation of Sherlock's physicality.

John loved Sherlock's mind. He loved the way that the detective would dance around a crime scene, drinking in the entire picture with his eyes, and the way that the doctor could practically see the cogs turning furiously in the genius' mind as he made his deductions.

John loved Sherlock's habits. The way he would lay sprawled on the sofa, hands steepled over his lips, thinking about God knew what, his eyes closed delicately, flying open at a moment's notice when he'd figured out whatever he'd been mulling over.

John loved Sherlock's...everything. He craved those quick brushes of skin as they'd both rush out the door to head to the Yard, bumping into each other on the way. He lived for Sherlock's small smiles when John would hand him his phone, or make him a cup of tea.

He really was infatuated, wasn't he?

John sighed again, watching as Sherlock smiled slightly in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible.

He was completely and utterly fucked, although not as thoroughly as he would have liked, the thought ruefully, a small smirk forming on his lips as he bit back a laugh.

He glanced up at the clock. 9 pm.

He exhaled slowly, moving his hand away from his flatmate's hair and leaning his head back onto a pillow. He had a full day at the surgery tomorrow, and he needed the rest.

His eyes closed slowly, and his body relaxed, welcoming the notion of sleep.

He was out within the minute.

* * *

**A/N: Yay for fluff! I thought it'd be beneficial to the story to establish where John is in regard to his feelings for Sherlock.  
**

**Don't worry, Sherlock will have his own internal monologue soon, I promise! **

**Thanks for reading, and reviews really make me smile. Also, they make me more willing to write fluff and stuff :p  
**

**Love you all!**

**(Also, quick note to Kestrel98: Your enthusiasm was a great motivator in me updating so quickly! Haha thank you very much! :p)**


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock awoke with a start, as he always did. He squinted, the dark room revealing that it was still the early hours of the morning, or the late hours of the night. He frowned slightly, not immediately aware of where he was, closing his eyes, trying to remember what he'd been doing the night before.

A film. Another film. A third film. A fourth film. John.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. John? Why was John so prevalent in his memory of the previous evening?

He moved his head slightly to the left, feeling a soft material brush against his cheek. Ah. John's jumper.

Sherlock's eyes widened. Oh. He'd fallen asleep on John's shoulder, hadn't he?

But that didn't explain why his head was now in the army doctor's lap with the shorter man's arm tightened around him, the other arm lying close to the taller man's head.

Sherlock was cuddling with John Watson, his purportedly platonic flatmate.

The consulting detective felt a slight twinge of discomfort as he became fully aware of his position. He felt John shift a bit, tightening his grip around him.

And, suddenly, Sherlock's momentary discomfort was replaced by a sweet, relaxed feeling. It spread from his head down to his fingers and toes, a little tingling sensation that made the hair on his arms stand on end, in the best way possible.

Sherlock pursed his lips, not sure how to respond to the way his body had reacted to John's movement.

In the space of 24 hours, he had made more intimate bodily contact than he had made in the whole of the last 16 years. But, somehow, that didn't unnerve the detective as much as it should have.

* * *

In those 24 hours, Sherlock had let his very carefully constructed walls fall, more than once, and it should have scared him enough to become even more cold and removed than he usually was.

But, no. Here he lay, dangerously close to the one man that Sherlock trusted more than anyone else in the world.

John would never dream of hurting Sherlock; the genius knew that much.

So, why was he so afraid of his feelings towards his companion?

The answer was painfully obvious, as well as unpleasant to think about. His previous, singular, experience with what he had felt to be romantic inclinations had been all but incredibly painful. The only other person that Sherlock had trusted with his heart had been Jim Moriarty, and the psychopath had used that to further his own purposes, not caring for a minute about the consequences to his supposed 'lover.'

Sherlock felt his eyes moisten, a few tears falling from his eyes, slipping from his eyelashes and landing on the dark wool of John's jumper.

But, John was absolutely nothing like Moriarty. Moriarty had never had any regard for human emotions, if he didn't see a way to twist and manipulate them for his own reasons.

John, on the other hand, was a kind, compassionate, selfless and loyal man, whose humanity always shone through in every act he committed. Even when he'd killed that mad cabbie in Sherlock's defense within only days of having met him, he hadn't shown any pride in what he'd done. In fact, he had seemed almost ashamed, even though he'd denied it when Sherlock had questioned him about it.

No, John was so much more than the insane thing that Moriarty was (Sherlock hesitated to even refer to him as a man).

John. John was exactly what Sherlock needed.

And, God, Sherlock needed him desperately.

* * *

**A/N: And, there you go! Sherlock has feelings!_ And they're for John!_ How presh, amirite?  
**

**Yes, I am aware that this chapter is painfully short, but, when combined with the last chapter, the just about make a normal length entry. So, I don't feel too bad.**

**Reviews are nice, as are your favorites and follows! I'm very flattered by the increasing readership on this story! It's nice to see that people actually want to read the crap I'm throwing out :P**

**But, really, thank you all! You're what keeps me writing :D**


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock lay awake for the rest of the dark hours, not bothering to keep track of the passing time. He simply lay there on the couch, in John's comforting embrace, not thinking as much as he normally would.

He wanted to relish and remember what it felt like to feel so safe and so at peace before John awoke, and before they would have to get up and do normal, everyday things like talk and make breakfast and worry about their emotions.

John stirred gently as the sun began to peek in through a slit in the curtains that covered the windows he faced. He yawned groggily, and then looked down, suddenly making eye contact with the entirely lucid consulting detective.

"Ahh, Jesus!" he exclaimed, jumping slightly, causing Sherlock to ram his head into the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock winced. "I'm glad to see that your reaction to my countenance in the morning is so positive," he grumbled, pulling himself up into a sitting position and massaging his head.

"Sorry," John stammered, straightening up as well. "I-I was just a bit startled, is all," he finished lamely, looking over at his flatmate apologetically.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as he turned to face him. "As I recall, I was not in the same position that I fell asleep in when I awoke this morning," he stated. "If anything, I should have been the one to run a certain someone's head into the sofa," he quipped.

John blushed a bit at that.

Sherlock stood gracefully, pressing his hands over the creases in his shirt and then running a hand through his hair, by way of combing it. "Tea?" he asked, moving towards the kitchen.

John stood to follow him. "Nooo," he said, moving quickly past him, snatching the kettle from its home in one of the designated 'we do not use this as an experiment storage area' cupboards.

Sherlock frowned. "And, may I ask why not?" his voice becoming haughty as he stepped closer to the doctor.

John raised his eyebrows. "The last time you made me a drink, you were trying to see if you could successfully slip narcotics into my mug without me noticing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, please, John. I wasn't about to let you _drink_ it," he scoffed, as if John were being completely ridiculous.

"Besides," John continued, "your tea tastes like shit anyway, even when you're not trying to drug me," he teased, smirking as the taller man scowled down at him.

"I don't consider my tea making skills to be very pertinent to 'the work,'" Sherlock retorted, gliding to the table, where he sat down.

John put the kettle to boil, laughing. "Don't let Mycroft hear you say that, or he may just revoke your British citizenship on the spot," he joked.

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. "Look at you, so dedicated to queen and country." John smirked again.

Sherlock suddenly felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He fished it out, puzzled when he saw Lestrade's name on the screen.

He answered the call quickly, bringing the phone up to his ear. "Yes?"

"Morning, Sherlock," he heard Lestrade open, his voice more businesslike than normal.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I thought that we had all come to the consensus that I was to 'take a break' from cases for an unspecified period of time," he responded, looking up at John, who shrugged, just as confused.

Lestrade coughed uncomfortably. "We…need you to come in for questioning." He paused. "It has to do with the Moriarty case."

Sherlock frowned. "I never told you his full name."

Lestrade pursed his lips. "Your brother…was willing and able to provide some information," he said, not elaborating on the elder Holmes' actions.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Why would Mycroft know Moriarty? As far as he knew, the two men had never had any interaction through him.

But, then again, he was dealing with his brother and a psychopath. Anything was possible, he supposed.

"Well, why do you need me, if my _brother_ is so willing to supply you with information?" he posed.

He heard Lestrade sigh from the other end of the line. "Just come, Sherlock," the Detective Inspector sighed, sounding exhausted. "If you come willingly, we can avoid the trouble of forcing you into a marked police car. That would be unpleasant for everyone involved."

Sherlock exhaled slowly. "Fine. But, I'm bringing John with me." He ended the call, dropping his phone on the table unceremoniously, dropping his head into his hands.

John abandoned his post by the tea kettle and walked to the table, slipping into the chair to Sherlock's right. "So, they want to question you," John stated simply.

Sherlock lifted his head, sighing. "Yes." He stood, pocketing his mobile and walking to the coat rack to retrieve his coat.

John followed him and grabbed his coat. "Go ahead and hail a cab; I'll be right out as soon as soon as I've called into the surgery," he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing the number.

Sherlock nodded, stepping out of the flat, sweeping down the stairs and stepping out into the cold morning air.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, it's short, but, I've already got the next chapter written, and it's too long for me to group with this chapter, so, just give me a bit and I'll have it typed up and ready for you all!**

**Many, many thanks to all who have reviewed, and especially many thanks to C0ldSteel, whose advice has been incredibly insightful. Thanks a billion! Reviews are lovely! You're all lovely! The world is lovely!**

**I'll be back very soon! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

John joined Sherlock in their cab quickly, and they headed off to Scotland Yard.

The pair could feel eyes boring into them from every direction as they walked inside. The gossip must've spread quickly as it usually did when it involved Sherlock. "Nosy bastards," John muttered, eliciting a smirk from the consulting detective. Gossip didn't faze him so much anymore, but it was amusing to see John so defensive on his behalf.

They strode into Lestrade's office, where they were met by the detective inspector and Sergeant Donovan. "Thank you for coming in," said Lestrade, his face pulled taut. "You've saved us quite a bit of paperwork by not causing a fuss," he said, managing a painfully fake half-smile.

Donovan was less cordial. "Holmes, you're coming with me," she said harshly, opening the door and glaring up at him. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him. "Alone," she snapped, ignoring John, who had opened his mouth to protest.

Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "I came here of my own accord, and without complaint," he reminded him. "Will you please allow John to at least listen in to the proceedings?" He swallowed, glancing over to his companion. "It's probably best that he hears whatever I say from my own mouth, rather than through _office gossip_," he said pointedly, raising an eyebrow at Donovan, who turned away slightly to avoid his gaze.

The detective inspector hesitated, but nodded after a moment. "John, with me," he muttered, waiting for the sergeant and Sherlock to leave before holding the door open for the doctor.

* * *

Sherlock entered the interrogation room, sitting himself down in his waiting chair, which sat in front of a large table, directly facing the one way mirror which allowed the individuals in the observation room directly across from them to observe the proceedings.

John and Lestrade entered that observation room, Sally close behind them.

The detective sergeant and inspector adjusted their two-way communication system quickly, both of them anxious to get the process begun as soon as possible, albeit for entirely different reasons. Sally finished with her equipment and rushed out; reappearing a few minutes later in the John and Greg's views as she entered the interrogation room.

Lestrade turned both of their coms, speaking into his mouthpiece. "You may begin, Donovan, but be…delicate, will you?" he said pointedly. "I'm already hesitant to let you be the one to interrogate him." He didn't feel that he owed Sergeant Donovan any tact; she wasn't one to distribute it freely, after all.

Donovan turned towards the mirror and glared in Lestrade's general direction, but, she nodded, not looking all too pleased, and turned to the genius in question.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, correct?" she intoned, knowing that the obvious questions were unnecessary.

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, clasping his hands together.

Sally sighed. "Audibly, please," she said, for the benefit of the recording crew.

Sherlock complied. "Yes. I am Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice monotonous and flat.

"Right." Sally took a seat to Sherlock's right, careful to not obscure the view of the observers in the room across from them. "Why were you at the scene of the crime on Sunday morning, when you are not a paid member of Scotland Yard?" Again, she sighed, knowing the answer was, again, obvious.

Sherlock raised his head slightly, but didn't look at his interrogator. "My presence was requested by Detective Inspector Lestrade, to provide an expert opinion concerning the evidence at the scene."

Donovan continued. "You arrived alone, didn't you?" She paused, and Sherlock made a confirmatory noise.

"Where was your usual, ahem, _companion_?" she asked, barely containing her smirk.

Sherlock looked up at her, his face betraying his exasperation. "John had requested earlier that morning that I leave him be if any cases were to arise." He paused. "He cited exhaustion, which was a fair enough reason, in my opinion."

Sally leaned in closer to Sherlock. "So, Mr. Holmes," she began, "how, exactly, would you describe your relationship with Dr. John Watson?" She let her smirk show through with that question.

"Donovan," she heard Lestrade warn through her earpiece, "this is not at all relevant, nor is it an appropriate time to gather your gossip. A bit of professionalism would be merited here, thanks," he grumbled.

She blushed a bit, but before she could retract her question, Sherlock raised a hand to stop her. "John is my closest friend and my professional partner," he said simply. "That's all you need to know," he said, giving Donovan an authoritative, and slightly patronizing, glance. "There's your _gossip_."

Donovan scowled. "Noted," she grumbled, but continued on with a more relevant and pressing question. "Could you _please_," she began, putting sour emphasis on the 'please,' "describe your relationship, current and past, with the man known as James Moriarty?"

Even though he had seen it coming, Sherlock still tensed at the question. He had known that this had been the reason he had been called in for interrogation as soon as he had seen Lestrade's number on his phone, but that knowledge didn't make the situation any less unpleasant or uncomfortable.

He breathed in deeply. "Jim-" Sherlock stopped to correct himself, also taking the time to clear his suddenly scratchy throat. "_James _and I met in our first year of university, when we were assigned to be roommates. We found out, quite quickly, that we were similar, and we became…close."

Donovan stepped back to her chair, retaking her seat. "Similar? Close?" she asked, leaning back. "Do elaborate," she said, waiting for his answer.

"We were both lonely and brilliant," he responded curtly. "Match made in heaven," he muttered, lowering his head a bit.

Sally leaned forward. "You still haven't explained your usage of the word 'close,'" she said. "How 'close' did you become?" It was obvious what she had begun to hint at. "Matches made in heaven, for you, or all people, don't come easily, now, do they?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Moriarty and I did become…romantically involved," he mumbled, not daring to look up and face Donovan's inevitable reaction.

The detective sergeant laughed mockingly. "You mean, like boyfriends?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched tighter. "No, like a business partnership," he spat sarcastically. "Yes, 'like boyfriends!'"

Sally heard a noise of disapproval from Lestrade, but she kept her smirk plastered on her face regardless. "So, you were Jim Moriarty's boyfriend," she drawled, as Sherlock's fists clenched. "Of course, you decided to go with a psychopath, of all people." She chuckled darkly. "Birds of a feather, I suppose." She laughed. "A match made in heaven, indeed."

It was obvious that the man being questioned was struggling to keep calm. His eyes closed tightly and his jaw remained rigid. "I did not come here to be mocked," he hissed, his icy glare crossing Donovan's arrogant one. "Ask me your _relevant_ questions, and then let me leave." He punctuated the last word by baring his teeth slightly and exhaling quickly.

Sally rolled her eyes and shrugged. "How long did the relationship last?" she asked flatly.

"Just over nine months."

The woman raised an eyebrow. "That's quite a bit for a sociopath," she quipped.

"It wasn't a typical relationship," Sherlock retorted, a bit too quickly.

Sally laughed. "What was it then? True love?" she snorted.

Sherlock's face darkened. "I thought so, yes."

His change in demeanor seemed to go unnoticed to his interrogator. "Why did it end, then, if your connection was so…_profound_?" she hissed, the malice in her voice taunting him.

Sherlock's gaze dropped, boring so intensely into the table before him that it seemed for a split second that he was attempting to drill through it. He remained silent.

Donovan snorted. "Are we getting shy?" she prodded, ignoring yet another, this time stronger, warning from her earpiece.

Sherlock still said nothing, closing his eyes and biting his tongue hard. "Don't." His voice dropped dangerously.

Sally crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring him. "What, did he call you fat? Look at somebody else for too long? Break up with you for a woman?" She rolled her eyes, staring down at him, her gaze haughty and mocking.

Sherlock remained still. "_Don't_," he growled. His voice was rising slowly, and his fingers were gripping tightly at his trousers, causing them to wrinkle.

Donovan snorted. "Ooh, sensitive subject. Did _you_ leave him?"

Sherlock jumped up suddenly from his seat and spun to face the sergeant, almost knocking her over. "He raped me," he spat, his anger rising. "I ran away from him because I was scared," he yelled, backing the woman into a corner with every word he said. "I ran and tried to cope, and the only way I could was by distracting myself. First the drugs, and now this!" He turned and gestured grandly at the room around him.

Sherlock rushed to the table and kicked it over in rage. "Then, he came back. Just like that!" he hissed, snapping his fingers and quickly turning back to Sally. "Just like that, he came back and taunted me." He stopped, his chest heaving. "And, again, I ran away." His voice hit a snag, and a strangled gasp escaped his throat. "What else was I supposed to do?" he whispered, his voice pained, and Sally watched as he broke down into violent sobs.

She froze, still pressed against her corner, unable to move her eyes away from the scene in front of her. She felt her heart sink in the most painful way possible. She had caused this. She, in her infinite need to have the last goddamn word, had managed to break down the coldest and most removed man that she had ever met.

If she could have managed it, she would have gladly let every bone in her body break simultaneously or have walked through a lightning storm wearing slabs of the most conductive metal possible, just so that she could escape the insurmountable guilt that was flooding her being in that moment.

She hated herself even more for even thinking about her own comfort when the man in front of her, now collapsed on the floor, was completely helpless and in pain, and all because of her.

She found herself bolting out of the interrogation room, ripping out her earpiece and equipment as she did, and letting the door slam behind her.

* * *

John and Greg had been standing in stunned silence as they watched Sherlock and Sally. Neither of them had the faintest idea what to do or say as they both saw Sherlock completely fall apart, right before their eyes.

Their lack of response was interrupted suddenly by Lestrade letting out a rapid stream of curses as feedback screeched in his earpiece as Donovan had bolted out the door. John jerked out of his speechless lull, and both men turned to each other.

"Go be with Sherlock," Greg said as he turned to go. "I'll go and...deal with Donovan," he intoned, gritting his teeth slightly.

John nodded and followed the detective out the door, turning the corner and making his way down to the interrogation room.

He stopped directly outside the door, his hand hovering over the door handle. He hadn't the faintest idea as to what he could say or do to comfort Sherlock. He had never had to, before the previous day's events, and he wasn't sure if he was fully capable of helping his friend.

But, who else would be willing to try? There was Mycroft, but this didn't strike John as the time to bring the two Holmes' together.

So, that left John, in all his uncertainty and self doubt, as the one person that could try to help Sherlock.

John took a deep breath and opened the door.

* * *

**A/N: I am so, so sorry that this took so long! I had to go to a Chamber choir retreat/workshop thing, which was basically going up to Salt Lake City for three days in a row and spending 12 hours a day learning 7 pieces of music for a concert scheduled for the 3rd night of the thing, as well as in singing workshops, which were either a) murder, or b) completely boring. Absolutely exhausting. So, yesterday was basically spent sleeping and re-watching Sherlock with my sister because I was so tired.**

**Also, this chapter was really, really hard for me to write (and rewrite), and I'm still really nervous about it. I really hope that it's done the story justice, and that it makes sense, and that you guys like it. **

**But, ahhh. It's done. Y'all are free to tell me what you think of it, as well as leave constructive criticisms for me.**

**Also, I start school in 8 days, so, my updates will probably get a bit more sporadic and a bit further apart from each other. God help me.**

**Thank you for sticking with me!**


	11. Chapter 11

John stepped inside and let the door fall shut quietly behind him. It hurt him to see Sherlock so vulnerable and in so much distress as he sat against the wall, with his head nestled in his arms and his chest heaving with angry sobs. The doctor was hesitant to touch him, not sure if the man in front of him would be open to his touch. However, he couldn't think of any better ideas, so he walked slowly towards him, sitting down softly beside him.

Sherlock sensed his presence and tensed slightly, but didn't look up.

John exhaled. "It's me," he said, gently and tenderly placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective flinched slightly, and John quickly drew back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" he stammered, edging back a bit to give the other man some room.

Sherlock slowly raised his head, his swollen eyes squinting up at John. "No, no, I'm sorry," he rasped. "It's fine-you're-" He stopped, closing his eyes again.

John returned to his original spot besides Sherlock and held out his arms to him. Sherlock fell into his embrace, letting his head rest against the doctor's chest. John ran a soft hand over Sherlock's back in an effort to comfort him. "I'm so, so sorry," he whispered, and he felt his flatmate hiccup softly, his tears returning.

"I just-I didn't know how to…" The taller man trailed off again, pressing his face into John.

"Shh, shh," John whispered, beginning to rock him back and forth, just as he had in that filthy alleyway just a day before. "You don't need to talk right now if you don't want to."

Sherlock sighed heavily, his tears still falling steadily, but his sobs and hiccups subsiding. "I should have told you before," he whispered back.

John gently pulled away from his best friend, guiding Sherlock's face up with his hand to meet his gaze. "Don't you dare apologize, Sherlock. Not for this." His thumb wiped absentmindedly at those pale, sharp cheekbones, catching a few tears as he did. He smiled slightly, mostly for the other man's benefit. "I don't think it would have been any easier if you had told me earlier," he continued.

Sherlock sniffed, his tears subsiding. "I suppose not," he agreed, a haggard half-smile slowly appearing on his lips. "Could we go home?" he asked tiredly.

John nodded, standing slowly and offering Sherlock his hand. The taller man took it, and they made their way outside.

* * *

The taxi ride was quiet, as it had been on their way back from the alleyway the previous day. But, this time, John was willing and able to provide Sherlock with the comfort he needed, even if it was just a hand to hold.

John glanced over at Sherlock. His eyes were red and still puffy, and his face was drawn. Bags had formed under those normally sharp eyes, and his lips were parted, as if it were too much exertion to hold them together. He looked completely exhausted.

"You need to take it easy when we get home, alright?" said John, gently squeezing his hand.

Sherlock looked over at him and sighed. "If I must," he breathed, turning his head to look out of the cab window.

John pursed his lips. "Sherlock, please. Do it for me." John hadn't intended to sound so matronly. He wrinkled his nose a bit. "That's not what I meant. I mean-"

Sherlock turned his head back to John. "No, John. I will do it for you. I'll do it for you because I trust you." _And, because I love you_, he almost added, but, he bit his tongue, saying no more.

John was a bit taken aback, but he smiled. "Okay. Thank you." He felt Sherlock's fingers tighten around his, and he felt his own face grow warm.

They didn't break their hands apart for the remainder of the ride home, nor as they walked inside their flat, both of them sitting down on the sofa. Even as John began to stand up to go and make some toast, Sherlock had gripped his hand firmly, looking up with such a pleading glance that John had had no choice but to sit down beside him again, keeping their hands clenched together.

Silence fell again and lingered as the minutes passed. Five minutes, then ten, and finally twenty before Sherlock broke it with a question. "Why have you stayed?" he asked softly, turning to John.

John took a moment to digest the question before answering. "I thought it was obvious," he answered, turning to meet his flatmate's gaze. "The thrill of the chase, the distraction from the mundane everyday life that I was living, before I met you." John was careful to omit the more private reasons.

Sherlock wasn't satisfied. "The novelty would have worn off quickly," the detective returned. "Besides, living with me can't be the most pleasant thing in the world."

John fought back the urge to snort back with, "_Well, if you weren't so bloody gorgeous, or didn't have such a brilliant mind, I'd have been gone sooner_," and instead answered with a more evasive retort. "Well, I'm about as exciting as a bag of rocks, and you've kept me around, haven't you?"

Sherlock's face fell, and his eyes softened. "Don't say that," he said quietly, staring at John.

John gave him an inquisitive look. "Why not? It's not like you haven't said anything similar before," he returned simply, not implying any malice. He had long come to accept that Sherlock Holmes was much more brilliant and exciting than he could ever be. It was a fact of life to John.

Sherlock winced. "I never meant it like that," he said softly, looking down at his knees.

John shrugged. "I've gotten used to it, Sherlock. It's just part of the deal of, you know, living with you." He turned away from the other man. "It's just how you are."

Sherlock frowned. "John, I'm-"

"Sherlock, it's fine," John snapped, more sharply than he'd intended.

"No, it's not _fine_, John," Sherlock retorted, pulling on John's hand to turn him back towards him. John obliged, sighing as he moved to face Sherlock.

"John, you are not 'dull.'" Sherlock's gaze was serious and solemn, and John was taken aback by its intensity. Sherlock continued, unabashed. "When I said that you were 'stupid,' or 'an idiot,' I never thought that you'd take it to heart," he said, his voice soft. "I suppose I'd just grown accustomed to regarding anyone who wasn't…well, _me_, as inferior, and those words would just slip out." He stopped, looking down. He took John's other hand in his, and John felt the backs of his knuckles being brushed by the detective's long thin thumbs.

"John," he heard the genius say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for every time I treated you like less than what you are. You are far more of an honorable man that I can ever become, and you bring me back to earth when I start to get unbearable." John saw Sherlock raise his head again, his eyes almost looking pained. "You are my better half, John, and I never want you to forget that."

John's lungs suddenly forgot how to breathe, and he sat in stunned silence as he attempted to, firstly, take a breath, and secondly, digest what he had just heard. _I am Sherlock Holmes' better half_, he repeated silently, his mind whirring. What in the world had Sherlock meant by that?

* * *

Sherlock bit his lip. John had been silent for over a minute after Sherlock had called him his 'better half.' It certainly hadn't been an exaggeration; Sherlock truly believed that John had made him into a better man through their five years as a team. John had always been there to keep Sherlock in line, and to provide a moral compass that Sherlock had lacked for far too long. But, this silence was unnerving. Had he made John uncomfortable? Had he said too much?

He felt John shift his weight on the couch, and Sherlock snapped his gaze up to meet John's. "I…I don't know what to say to that," John said, his brow furrowing as he continued to think. "I don't want to read too deeply into it, but…what do you mean?"

Sherlock's mouth opened slightly as he stared at John. "I mean-I mean that I, uh-" Sherlock stammered, unsure of how to say what was on his mind. God, John had an annoying tendency to turn Sherlock into a blithering idiot.

No, not annoying; just slightly frustrating.

Alright, _incredibly_ frustrating.

John raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock, just tell me," he said nervously.

Sherlock took a shaky breath. "John, I really-I care about you," he rushed, his cheeks turning slightly red.

John's mouth opened slightly, twitching a bit before he spoke. "Yes, Sherlock, I would hope so," he said carefully, not daring to hope that what Sherlock was saying was what John was thinking. "We are friends, are we not?"

Sherlock let go of John's hands nervously, using them to tousle his dark curls. "No, John, it's more than that. _You're_ more than that to me," he stuttered. Dammit, this _was_ frustrating. He grasped at his hair, taking an exasperated breath.

John laughed nervously. "Sherlock, you're not making sense-"

"I think I love you," Sherlock blurted. He slapped a hand over his mouth and his eyes widened as he realized the enormity of what he'd said. His eyes fell on John, expecting the worst.

But, instead of bolting for the door or looking appalled, John burst into laughter. _Laughter._ His eyes closed and his chest heaved as his giggles filled the sitting room.

Sherlock just sat there, completely confused. "John, this isn't funny," he said, pouting and trying not to let his emotions surface.

The doctor looked up at him and burst into even more violent giggles when he saw the genius' face.

Sherlock was hurt. "John, why are you laughing?" he demanded, his heart tugging painfully in his chest.

John looked up, his face flushed from his giggles. "Oh, come here," he cried, pulling his flatmate into a clumsy hug.

Sherlock was thoroughly perplexed, his arms pinned to his sides by John's strong arms. "John, what are you-"

John just hugged him tighter. "You know," he chuckled softly, "for a genius, it takes you far too long to catch on to the obvious."

Sherlock still hadn't decoded John's bizarre behavior. His mind was uncomfortably clouded, and his usually quick mind was sloshing through a pit of emotions, making it difficult to focus. "I don't-"

John pulled back from him, holding him by his shoulders. "I love you, too, you clueless bastard," he laughed, smiling from ear to ear.

Sherlock's eyes widened in shock, like a child that had first seen a pile of gifts under the tree on Christmas morning. "Are-are you sure?" he asked, unable to believe it.

John sat back, his goofy grin still plastered to his face. "Oh, come on, Sherlock; the clues have been there since day one."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Now that he thought about it, there _had _been signs; Sherlock had just been unwilling to allow himself to believe that they hadn't been figments of his imagination.

They'd even been there at Angelo's, on the day that they had met, when John had quizzed him on his relationship status. Sherlock had foolishly made some comment about being 'married to his work,' but, how could he have known that John would become so important to him?

And, there had been countless other times when Sherlock had decidedly turned a blind eye to the now obvious. He had ignored the way that John would hesitate when Sherlock had asked him to pull his mobile from his jacket, or, God forbid, his trouser pockets, and then blush furiously after he had, or how John would hesitate slightly before denying that Sherlock was his boyfriend.

He returned to the present from his thoughts, glancing up at John, who was still smiling. "You're starting to see it now, aren't you?" he said, biting his tongue slightly as he snorted. "It's all starting to make sense in that brilliant head of yours, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I always saw it," he said, "but, I never let myself believe that it was real." He looked up and smiled sadly. "How could someone as normal and wonderful as you ever have feelings for a madman like me?"

John sighed. "Because that madman _was _you, Sherlock," he whispered, taking his hands again. "I can't explain exactly why I fell in love with you, but, I can tell you this; I _do_ love you, regardless of your shortcomings or your faults." He looked up at him. "I have had five years to leave, and I still haven't, and I know I won't." John leaned forward and pulled Sherlock into another hug. "I will always be here when you need me, because you've always been there when I've needed you," he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock returned the hug, his arms wrapping themselves around John tenderly and holding him tightly. He breathed in the smell of John's shampoo and let his head rest on the doctor's strong shoulder, relishing the feeling of being so close to the man he loved. John. _His_ John.

Their embrace lasted a long while, although neither had bothered to keep track of how long. Eventually, though, Sherlock had inadvertently let out a yawn, his body betraying him as the events of the morning caught up with him. John then insisted that he go and sleep, making some comment about how his mind couldn't continue to run if it was exhausted.

They pulled away from each other reluctantly, stretching slightly as they tried to relieve their stiffness from having stayed in the same position for too long.

John stood up, and Sherlock began to sprawl on the couch, pulling a pillow under his head. "Oh, no, you don't," the doctor said, pulling away the pillow from under Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled. "I thought you said I should sleep," he said pointedly, but he sat up nonetheless.

John rolled his eyes. "You do know you own a bed, right?" he said as he extended a hand to the detective.

Sherlock sighed and took it, hoisting himself up. "I suppose it would be more comfortable," he muttered.

John rolled his eyes. "What would you without me, Mr. Holmes?" he laughed.

Sherlock squeezed his hand. "I don't even want to imagine it, Dr. Watson," he said simply, smiling down at him.

John smiled back as they walked into Sherlock's room.

* * *

It was tidy, probably because Sherlock rarely retreated there, preferring to spend his time in the sitting room at his (or John's) computer researching a case, or analyzing evidence by pinning photographs to the walls. Even when the detective slept, it was usually on the couch, so that he could rush back to his work as soon as he awoke.

Both men stopped in front of the bed. John let go of Sherlock's hand and stepped backwards awkwardly. "Um, I'd best leave you to it, then," he muttered, turning to leave.

"Wait," Sherlock said quietly, and John stopped, his head turning back to look at him. Sherlock swallowed. "Would you…stay?" he asked timidly, hoping he wasn't breaking some social etiquette rule or overstepping his boundaries.

John was a bit taken aback. "You want me to sleep with you?" he asked, without thinking about his choice of words. "I mean-um, well-" he stammered, his cheeks flushing pink.

"It's alright if you don't want to," Sherlock rushed, his hands clasping behind him. "It's fine."

John shook his head. "No, it's alright. I'll stay." He stood quietly for a moment before speaking again. "I'll just go change into some pajamas," he said, turning to the door.

Sherlock nodded. "I'll do the same," he said quickly.

John smiled and left for his room.

* * *

Both men were ready within five minutes, and John had been quick to reappear in Sherlock's room. They stood awkwardly for a few moments before Sherlock asked, "Do you prefer a side of the bed?"

John shrugged. "The right, if it's all the same to you," he said.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Good, because I prefer the left." He lifted the covers and gestured for John to climb in. John obliged, slipping in between the sheets. Silk, he observed as his bare feet came in contact with the smooth material. _How 'Sherlock_,' he thought smugly as he settled into his side of the bed. He felt it bounce gently as Sherlock slipped in after him him.

John had forgotten how comforting it felt to lie besides someone. The feeling of having a warm body next to him was something that was incomparable to anything else, and it was even better when it was someone he cared for so deeply. He rolled over to face Sherlock, gently taking his hand.

They smiled at each other for a moment, until Sherlock reached over to John, gently releasing his hand and rolling him back over to his other side. He wrapped his arms around the doctor, holding him close and taking his right hand in his. "Thank you for staying," he whispered tenderly.

John smiled. "This isn't much of a sacrifice," he chuckled, letting himself relax into Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck. "That's not what I meant," he sighed. "Thank you for staying with me for so long," he said, his voice muffled, but understood all the same.

John sighed happily. "'Still not much of a sacrifice," he muttered as he let his eyes close softly, and both men were asleep in minutes.

* * *

**A/N: Woohoo, plot development! And, it's now officially out there; these two have admitted their feelings! It's a start, right?**

**Drama is coming (yet again...angst angst angst all around, yeah?), so steel yourselves. Go buy yourselves some chocolate and some ice cream and let's see how this goes.**


	12. Chapter 12

Greg had found Sergeant Donovan rather quickly, pacing manically back and forth in an empty office, her eyes red and swollen, and generally looking like a mess. He hadn't had the energy to be angry at her, even though he'd had full reason to be. He had, instead, sent her home, realizing that she would have been of absolutely no help in her current state, and deciding to talk to her when they were both in clearer states of mind.

Greg sat himself in his desk chair, allowing himself to become absorbed in his own thoughts.

To be honest, Greg was far angrier with himself than he ever could have been at Donovan. It had been his stupid decision to allow Sally any sort of power in interrogating Sherlock. He had allowed her petty threats of exposure (she had apparently overheard him planning a 'not-so-business-y' meeting with everyone's favorite diplomat, and had threatened to let every colleague of his know) to get to him, even though they shouldn't have fazed him.

He now realized that it was really shouldn't have worried him so much to imagine a world where people knew about his personal relationship with Mycroft. He wasn't ashamed of it, but, it was a subject that he was not fully ready to reveal to his colleagues.

If anything, he had been most worried about Sherlock's reaction to learning that his brother was dating; and dating the detective inspector, of all people. But now, that was the least of his problems.

Greg let his head fall into his hands, sighing loudly. It had been an incredibly stupid and shitty thing for him to have let this situation happen, and he was genuinely worried about Sherlock. The only time that Lestrade had seen him looking so vulnerable had been the night that he'd arrested him during that drugs bust ten years prior, and the one thing that had kept him going after that night had been the excitement and distraction of the cases he took up.

Now, Lestrade wasn't sure if cases would be able to help the consulting detective as well as they had in the past. After all, it had been a case that had drawn Sherlock into the mess he was currently in. This Moriarty character had obviously been out to taunt him into a moment of vulnerability, and he had succeeded. The association might still be a fresh and open wound to the genius.

Or, on the other hand, he may have already repressed it into the dark recesses of his mind, for all Greg knew. He had previously theorized that Sherlock Holmes had somehow immunized himself from feeling any unpleasant emotions, particularly after he had kicked his drug habit and cleaned up his act (a bit), but recent events were making any and all his theories increasingly complicated.

At least, he thought, Sherlock had John. John was definitely at and on his side, and Greg hoped that, if anything, wouldn't change.

But, besides John, Sherlock also had him. He hadn't made very wise decisions, at least as of late, but Greg was ready and willing to clean up the mess that he'd made. And, he was prepared to do something that he knew Sherlock would refuse.

He picked up his mobile, stood, and dialed a familiar number. He heard a resounding click as the other end of the line picked up. "Mycroft?"

"Oh, hello, Gregory," said the diplomat. "You never call my personal phone during the day," he stated simply, as if inviting an explanation.

Greg sighed, falling back into his office chair. "I have an emergency," he said, propping his head up on his free hand.

He heard a sigh. "If it's about legwork, I must say I'm not thrilled-"

"It has to do with Sherlock, and it's serious," he interjected, and he heard Mycroft go silent.

A few quiet seconds passed before Mycroft spoke. "What has he done this time?" he heard him say, a tired edge appearing in his voice.

"No, no, it's not his fault, it's mine," Greg said quickly, his free hand moving to his forehead, attempting to alleviate some of the pressure that was building inside it.

There were a few seconds of silence before Mycroft spoke again. "Please, do explain," he heard, the other man's voice a bit softer this time.

* * *

Greg gave Mycroft a quick, yet thorough, relay of the events of the morning, not omitting anything. He owed it to Sherlock, and Mycroft, by extension, to be as honest and frank as he possibly could. At the moment, it didn't matter to Greg if Mycroft would think poorly of him; he was more concerned with Sherlock's well-being than with his.

Greg finished his narrative and heard nothing from Mycroft for a minute. "Are you still there?" he asked softly.

"Yes." The answer was short, and he heard what seemed like...well, he wasn't sure what he heard in Mycroft's tone. It wasn't anger, nor was it disappointment. Was it guilt, maybe? Did he somehow feel responsible for what Greg had done? It wasn't as if he had any reason to, as far as Greg knew.

"I really feel terrible for what I let happen, Mycroft, and I hope you understand that," Greg began. "I wasn't thinking-well, I wasn't anticipating-"

"Gregory, I believe that we should discuss this more deeply in person. Phone lines can be easily intercepted, and I take my brother's safety far too seriously for that to become a liability." There was a short pause before he heard Mycroft continue. "May I free your schedule for the rest of the day, so that we can continue to talk in private?"

"It's not like I've ever had a choice," Greg mumbled to himself. "Go ahead," he said audibly into his mobile. "Where should we go?"

"I'll drive to the Yard, and we can decide there, in person." Mycroft paused. "Bugs and the like, if you understand what I mean."

Greg shrugged. "Fair enough. How soon can you get here?"

"With current traffic? Five minutes."

"I'll be ready."

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know, this chapter is late, and it's short, and *sigh*.  
**

**I really do apologize; my life is currently a huge mess of school and exhaustion and choir and drama officership and all that jazz. Also, college classes are going to be the death of me. Fucking hell.**

**So, as I've mentioned in previous author's notes, my updates will probably be getting more spread out, and I do feel bad that that has to happen, but, it's a side effect of me being so damn busy and tired and shit.**

**Also, I'm trying to formulate a concrete, solid, and non-lame plan for how this plot is going to shape up, so that's taking some time, and I am also reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original Sherlock Holmes stories so that I can get a better feel for the canon, and so that, maybe in the future, I can add in some of those stories' characters into the plot. Who knows.**

**I'll start the next chapter plan tonight, and I will try to update every Wednesday from here on out. Wednesday is a good day, don't you think?**

**But, thank you so much to all the new readers that have been showing up recently! Welcome to the party! :) Reviews are lovely, since I'm still new at this, and just because I love getting feedback so very much.**

**Given that I haven't died from pure school overload by next week, I will see you then!**


	13. Chapter 13

Mycroft muttered instructions to the driver, asking him to wait, and moved to step out of the car. He groped around for his umbrella for a moment before he remembered that he had somehow misplaced it the previous day. He would look for it after his meeting with Gregory, he decided.

He had planned to walk into the building to find his partner, but was surprised to see Greg striding towards him quickly as he stepped out onto the pavement. Mycroft gave him a curt nod, which the other man returned, and he stepped back to allow Greg entry into the black car they were to take to the detective inspector's flat.

Mycroft slipped in besides him, shutting the door as he settled in. "I apologize for the sudden plans, but this situation requires immediate attention," he said blandly, and Greg nodded guiltily.

"I'm so sorry for what happened, Mycroft," the grey haired man said, wringing his hands as the car began to move away from the Yard. "I hope you know how much I regret what happened, and what it did to Sherlock," he continued, his voice softening as he neared the end of his sentence.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "It would be unfair of me to be angry with you, Gregory," he said simply, turning his head to stare out of his window.

Greg frowned. "How so? You have every right to hate me for being a stupid, careless, and unprofessional twat," he said, and Mycroft knew he was right. But, at the same time, he reasoned, it wasn't as if Greg was carrying all the blame.

No, Mycroft had done his share of damage, but the explanation and assessment of _his_ behavior could wait until they could talk in Greg's flat.

Greg took Mycroft's silence as a sign. "Fine, don't tell me anything," he muttered, turning to look out of his window as well.

Mycroft sighed, and silence fell for the rest of the thankfully short ride.

* * *

Mycroft had followed Greg into his flat, taking note of the slight mess that cluttered the sitting room. There were a few empty beer bottles scattered amongst piles of papers and other work related clutter, as well as dirty dishes stacked in the sink. At least a week's worth, he noted, furrowing his brow.

Greg took notice of Mycroft's expression. "I haven't been home too much in the past week," he muttered defensively, sweeping up a few of the empty bottles into his arms and rushing over to the bin, where he dumped them unceremoniously. "I've been busy, and the business with the murder-well, it hasn't helped," he finished lamely.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I was going to remain silent," he said plainly, delicately sitting himself down on Greg's old sofa, placing his hands primly on his knees.

Greg sat across from him in his recliner, leaning forward in an attempt to close the gap between them. "You said something about not being completely guiltless in the car," he pressed gently. "What was that all about?" His voice was soft, but Mycroft could detect his inner detective coming out into play.

Mycroft gave him a withering look. "There is no need for an interrogation, _Detective Inspector_," he said icily.

Greg rolled his eyes. "You didn't look like you were about to jump into any explanations," he shot back, cocking an eyebrow. "Go on," he continued when Mycroft remained silent for a moment.

Mycroft sighed wearily, but began to speak. "Sherlock and I have had a difficult relationship for quite a long time," he said plainly. "I won't bore you with our childhood stories, but the trouble really began when he was around thirteen, and I twenty. Our parents were in the middle of a not-so-amicable divorce, and Sherlock was sent to live with me while they tried to settle their affairs.

"I was still very young, and I had no idea how to really care for him. He was a handful, as you could have deducted yourself, and he had a burning passion for anything and everything he could do well." Mycroft scowled involuntarily. "I cannot tell you how much I learned to hate the violin in the years that he lived with me." He heard a slight chuckle from Greg, and stopped to look up.

Greg cleared his throat, but a small smirk remained on his lips. "Apologies," he said, waving a hand at him. "Go on."

"He lived with me for a few years, first due to our parents' inability to divide their estates evenly between them, and then due to their unexpected passing about three years after Sherlock had left them." Mycroft had tried to keep emotion out of his voice, but a bit of sadness escaped. "It was much more difficult for Sherlock than it was for me. It may seem cold, but, I had grown far apart from my parents in the years that I had lived on my own at university. Besides, I had always been more successful in suppressing my emotions, even as a child." He paused, running his right index finger over the back of his left hand absently.

"Sherlock started to struggle in his focus. I could tell that his emotions were making it difficult for him to keep his mind on school and the things he loved." He paused, kneading his hands nervously. "His marks had begun to slip; he rarely even looked at his violin…"

"I had no idea how to help him," he continued, glancing up at Greg briefly, but looking down again before he established eye contact, "so I continued to treat him exactly as I had for the last few years. I told him that caring was not an advantage, and that the world did no favors for those who were 'too weak' to repress and 'manage their emotions properly.'" He swallowed hard. "I forced him to finish his A-Levels and go off to university against his will. I don't know if I was just looking for a place to send him away or if I actually had his best interests at heart-"

At this point, Mycroft had begun to unravel. His hands shook and he felt his throat clench in the telltale signs of surfacing emotions. "I made him go to that dammed university," he hissed, his eyes beginning to spill hot, angry tears that fell hastily down his cheeks. "If I hadn't sent him away, he would have never met Moriarty, and he would have never-" He stopped, wiping hastily at his tears. "He could have been safe," he said angrily. "I could have protected him, Gregory, and I didn't."

"What could you have done, Mycroft?" Greg asked softly. "It is not your fault that Moriarty manipulated him and hurt him. That was, and is, solely Moriarty's doing, and not yours."

"Alright, fine; it was not my fault that my brother was taken advantage of by a psychopath," Mycroft returned bitterly. "I _concede _to that." He pressed his fingertips into his temples hard enough to leave bruises. "But, I cannot say that I hold no responsibility for how Sherlock's confession came to pass."

"Mycroft, we've already discussed how I've fucked up," Greg sighed. "That was _my_ stupidity, not yours."

"I made my errors before the interrogation," Mycroft insisted, standing quickly and moving to lean against the wall. "I, by extension, made the interrogation necessary," he added grimly, bringing long fingers up to cover his lips and folding his arm across his ribs.

Greg huffed. "Mycroft, beating around the bush won't help me understand any more than I already do, which isn't that much." His lips drew back into a sharp line. "Either tell me or don't."

Mycroft nodded and began. "I was called in a month and a half ago to assist in interrogating a criminal connected to several breeches in government security," he began, stopping when he saw Greg give another exasperated sigh. "It's context," he snapped, continuing when Greg rolled his eyes and urged him on.

"The man in question identified himself as James Moriarty, an apparently popular _'consulting criminal,_'" he said, using air quotes for emphasis. "His words, not mine," he said flatly as the other man gave him another eyebrow raise.

"I had no reason to see him as anything more than a public nuisance at the time," he continued, grimacing as he did. "That was my first mistake. I underestimated him, exactly as he had expected me to."

"We had assumed that the interrogation process would be no different than any other; that, with the standard procedure, Moriarty would agree to offer us any and all of the information we needed."

"'Standard procedure?'" Greg asked cautiously.

"Bribery, threats, torture." He paused, biting the inside of his cheek. "The 'Unholy Trinity,'" he remarked sarcastically.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "_That's _'standard procedure?'" he asked bitingly.

Mycroft exhaled sharply. "If this is going to turn into my Judgment Day, I would much rather that God come down himself to draw his own conclusions," he snapped.

Greg sat back, his face still drawn. "Fine," he returned tersely. "I'll keep my mouth shut."

Mycroft glared at him, but kept going, regardless. "We were mistaken in our assumptions. He was incredibly resilient. None of our bribes suited him, none of our threats fazed him. Not even physical pain could make him lose his composure."

"Then, one day, during one of my meetings with him, I received a call from John concerning some trifle Sherlock had caused."

"I must have said my brother's name aloud as I left the cell to take the call," he continued, "for, when I returned, Moriarty made it clear that the key to gaining any information from him lay in my willingness to…exchange information with him."

"Information about _what_, exactly?" Greg asked.

"Information about my younger brother." Mycroft answered, his voice low. "He wanted to know about Sherlock."

"You caved, didn't you?" Greg asked quietly. "You sold your brother out for information about a psychopath."

"How was I to know what Moriarty had done?" Mycroft asked, his voice pleading. "The details I gave him were small; things that I thought insignificant. His age, his occupation, his inescapable smoking habit-" Mycroft swallowed. "But, you're right. I did betray my brother." He lowered his head, so as to not look at Greg. "I ignored every warning sign and every instinct that told me not to say anything, because I was selfish and because I thought that I was doing someone a favor." He shut his eyes tightly. "And, it turned out that that someone was James Moriarty."

Greg stood and walked over to him, stopping a few inches in front of him. Mycroft opened his eyes and almost recoiled upon seeing Greg so close to him.

"Why did you tell me, Mycroft?" Greg asked simply. "You could have hold anyone, but, why did you come to me?"

Mycroft gave him an incredulous look. "I decided to tell you because I hurt my brother, Gregory, and because I believe that family is more than just a group of people fate burdens you with," he answered. "I told you because you hurt him as well, and because you showed me that you care enough about Sherlock to want to repair the damage you'd done." He paused, his face softening. "When you called me to ask for my help, I thought that maybe…I had an ally in you. I thought that, maybe, you would understand that I'd 'fucked up' as well, far more than you had, and that you would be willing to help me." Mycroft clasped his hands together nervously, kneading them again.

"Am I wrong, Gregory?" he asked softly.

Greg stepped slightly back, unsure of how to answer. "No, I don't think you are, Mycroft," he said. "I know that you love Sherlock, no matter how much you may not advertise it to the world, and I know that I care for him, too." He stepped forward again, taking his hands. "I need you to know that, whatever you decide to do, I am here to help you."

"You don't just have an ally in me, Mycroft." He smiled slightly. "You have much more than that, and I hope that you understand that."

Mycroft exhaled in relief and embraced him suddenly, almost knocking Greg backwards. "Thank you," the taller man whispered, and Greg settled into the sudden contact. "I'm sorry," he continued, resting his head on the silver-haired man's shoulder.

"Don't apologize to me, Mycroft," Greg returned. "Sherlock deserves that more than I do." He pulled back. "In fact, he deserves it from the both of us."

Mycroft nodded, but not without hesitation. "Surely, he does; but, not today," he said carefully. "The wounds are still too fresh, for everyone involved, but especially for him." He shrugged slightly. "Besides, my visits are not often well received, even on better days."

Greg gave a nod of agreement in return. "Soon, though?" he asked.

"Soon."

* * *

**A/N: Damnit. I was close enough to Wednesday, right? Apologies.  
**

**Buuuuuuuuuuutttt...**

**A very kind reviewer by the name of WL Chastain gave me some great advice about focusing on my schooling and suggested that I change my schedule to an update every two weeks. I'm hesitant to do that, mostly because my procrastinating habits are AWFUL (and I will probably end up pushing my timetable further and further back), but, I am thinking about not being so hellbent on an 'update every Wednesday' thing. **

**So, here's my plan: I will write as I can, and I will strive to give you quality chapters that are well proofread and thought out. That's the main reason that I am updating this 'two days late;' I proofread the shit out of this chapter, man! :) I'll try to stick to a 'once a week-ish' timeline, as that allows me the flexibility I need to provide quality writing, as well as the kick in the ass that I need to stay consistent. :p So there! **

**Also, here's a quick shout out to all of you who have followed, favorited, and reviewed this story! I cannot tell you how happy I get when I'm at school and I get a new follower, favorite, or review notification to my phone! It seriously makes my days so much better! :')  
**

**Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy lives to read this! **


	14. Chapter 14

John awoke to a light tapping on Sherlock's bedroom door. He was still pinned to Sherlock by way of a tight embrace, which made standing up to answer the door impossible without disrupting the detective's slumber. John, however, was reluctant to wake Sherlock. He had barely been able to convince him to go to sleep in the first place, and he wasn't about to ruin his forfeit his victory easily. So, John attempted to wriggle out of his companion's arms. However, the sleeping man tightened his grip on the doctor's waist, foiling his escape plan. John reverted to Plan B.

"Sherlock," he whispered, nudging his chest with his elbow. Sherlock didn't stir. "Sherlock," he hissed, wriggling a bit more forcefully this time.

Sherlock grumbled a bit as he stirred, his eyes opening slightly. "What is it," he muttered groggily, letting his arms relax.

John sat up, untangling himself from the covers and climbing over Sherlock's body, heading for the door. "There's someone knocking at your door," he said simply, reaching for the doorknob as he did.

Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes lazily. "Who is it?" he asked, as the door swung open to reveal a chipper Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, there you are!" she said cheerily. "I wasn't sure if you were in, since you weren't in the sitting room, and John's room was empty, so I decided to check in here." She smiled. "I wasn't expecting to find the both of you in here, though, I must say," she chuckled.

John blushed in spite of himself. "It's not what it looks like," he rushed, looking down at the floor. He wasn't sure why he was so suddenly embarrassed, but he was embarrassed, nonetheless.

Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows. "I wasn't going to ask," she quipped, and John blushed harder.

Sherlock stood quickly and strode towards the door, stopping behind John. "What brings you here at," he paused, looking up at the clock, "four in the afternoon?" he asked. "It's not like you routinely come upstairs during the day," he said.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a small, but slightly worried smile. "I just wanted to see how you were doing, dear," she said softly. "Your friend Greg stopped by to see if you were in, but left when he realized you two were _unavailable_," she said, smirking ever so slightly as she emphasized her last word.

John blushed again, but Sherlock took a different approach. "If hecomes by again in the near future, I would very much appreciate if you would interrupt me from whatever it is I am doing," he said simply, moving past John to address Mrs. Hudson directly. "There are important conversations to be had between us."

John cleared his throat and moved to rejoin the duo in the doorway. "If it's that pressing, you could, you know, call him yourself," John said, raising his eyebrows. "I thought you were the Holmes in charge of _legwork_."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'm not desperate to start the discussion myself, given the situation, John," he said quietly. "I'd rather let him dictate the terms."

John nodded solemnly after taking a moment to digest his words. "I guess you've earned that right," he agreed, turning back to Mrs. Hudson. "Thanks for letting us know about Greg's visit," he said, giving their landlady a small smile and a hug.

She returned the sentiment, turning to Sherlock as John released her. "You're lucky you have such a dedicated man by your side," she said, gesturing to the doctor, who looked down at his sock-clad feet as she did. "Don't let such a good one slip away," she quipped, giving the detective a look that said she was only partially joking.

He smiled tenderly. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, slipping his hand inconspicuously into John's, giving it a light squeeze.

John smiled sheepishly. "And, even if he had dreamt it, I wouldn't be too keen to leave," he added quietly. They both turned to retreat back into Sherlock's room, and Mrs. Hudson turned to go.

She walked quickly out of the boys' flat and slipped quietly into hers. She was glad to see that Sherlock was alright. Greg had asked her to inform the boys that he had stopped by, but he had really paid her a visit in order to let her know what had happened with Sherlock, as well as to apologize for his personal involvement in the matter after he'd given her the news.

The revelation had nearly broken her heart. She herself had endured many years with a husband that had been abusive, in many more ways than one. In fact, she had first met Sherlock in a coffee shop on one of the nights that she'd managed to escape the house, and, by extension, her husband. She had been sitting alone, and he had deduced that she wasn't alright.

She had been desperate to be rid of her secrets, and he had been there to listen. He'd held her hand as she'd cried, and, when she had finally told him everything, he promised that he would help her.

And, he had. He had used his established connections in the force, as well as several others that he still refused to divulge, to unearth some incriminating ties between a string of murders and the man he was trying to protect her from. His trial had been straightforward, and his sentence had been sure.

After that, Lucinda Hudson had been free. She was no longer bound to the man that had hurt her so, and it was all credited to Sherlock.

In return for all that he had done, she had promised Sherlock that she would always be ready and willing to help him in any way she could. She felt as if she could never repay him the debt that she owed, but, she felt some comfort in the fact that she was of use to him, as a friend as well as a landlady (and, occasionally, as an unofficial housekeeper).

After all, she wasn't getting any younger, and she reckoned that Sherlock, and John, by extension, were the closest she was ever going to get to having children of her own. And, who knew, she thought smugly; at the rate they were going, she might just end up with a few adopted grandchildren of her own before her time was up.

She was glad they had each other. Sherlock had given John the spark of enthusiasm that he had been lacking when she had first met him, and John had helped Sherlock begin to unearth his very well-hidden compassion. They were complimentary, and it gave her nothing but joy to see their relationship blossom before her eyes. But, more importantly, she was glad that they each had someone that they could trust in and rely on. A matronly figure could only provide so much support, and the partnership between John and Sherlock was a precious one.

She realized that she had sat herself down on her sofa without realizing it and chuckled to herself. "A sign of old age," she remarked to the empty flat, leaning back and closing her eyes, smiling as she did.

"It just creeps up on you, doesn't it?" a smooth, yet menacing, voice replied.

Her eyes flew open, her mouth moving instinctively to cry out. A rough hand clamped itself over her lips, and the voice tsked. "No, no, this won't do," the male voice chided, and she felt a blindfold being fastened over her eyes. "The captive mustn't be _uncooperative_." The blindfold was tightened, and another piece of fabric was stuffed into her mouth. "Uncooperative captives are only good for one thing; target practice." The intruder repositioned her roughly, allowing access to her soon-to-be bound arms. "And, we need you alive, Lu-cin-_da_," the voice enunciated, placing a flip of the tongue on the final syllable of her first name. "We need you very much _alive_."

She was pulled unceremoniously to her feet, and she felt a sudden twinge of pain from her protesting hip. She let out a muffled noise of pain, and she heard an exasperated sigh.

"Since the meaning of 'cooperative' seems to have never been explained to you, I'm afraid that I must resort to 'Plan B,'" the voice said. She felt the same rough hand that had covered her mouth a moment before clamp down on her thin arm, holding her in place. _As if I was about to run off someplace,_ she thought shrewdly, jumping slightly as she felt the cool sting of what felt like an antiseptic wipe. She had helped John nurse a scraped Sherlock enough times to recognize that sensation.

But, why were they using one on he-

She felt a sharp object pierce the crook of her elbow, and she let out another muffled exclamation. "Just a little tranquilizer," he voice explained. There was a bit of discomfort in it this time; it wasn't as cocky and suave as it had been previously. "You're not the only one that's not a fan of needles," it muttered gruffly.

She felt her legs go suddenly weak, and she toppled over, two strong hands catching her as she did, pulling her upright again. "Seb, the fuck're you doin' in there?" another voice hissed. "Quit muckin' 'bout; we oughta get a move on."

"Well, you impatient shit, you could give me a hand," the original voice snapped testily.

'_Seb,' _Mrs. Hudson thought groggily. _Who is 'Seb?'_

She felt her head getting lighter, her thoughts growing even fuzzier and more disjointed. She felt herself being picked up hastily and being carried for a few paces.

She was dropped into a compartment, and the last thing she heard before passing out was the ominous sound of a slamming trunk door.

* * *

**A/N: Angst. Drama. Oh noes.  
**

**I had a really nice, eloquent author's note all finished, and then I hit save and it all went to hell. The servers on this website are fucking up big time and it's making me sad inside.**

**Oh, well.**

**But, thanks for the reviews, as always, and thanks to all of you readers! 49 readers is fantastic to me, man! Ahhh! :)**

**But, yeah. I'll be back in a week-ish, with more plot development and stuff. Yeah yeah.**


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